


Kingsman: A Journey Unfinished

by Aud_McCartney



Series: Kingsman: A Fanwork Archive [3]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Post V-Day, and why a bunch of espionage agents believed he was dead despite vanishing mysteriously, answering the nagging question of Harry's missing body, post-TSS, psych! no we're not and you're gonna cry, since bodies don't tend to get up and walk away before you can collect and bury them, so AREN'T WE LUCKY I'M HERE, there had to have been a moment like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 00:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14801174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aud_McCartney/pseuds/Aud_McCartney
Summary: There's usually closure in toasting the fallen. Not for Merlin. Not this time.





	Kingsman: A Journey Unfinished

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

It was Eggsy who’d reminded him, after the plane had landed back at headquarters, Roxy waiting for them on the tarmac near the transport he’d sent for her. They’d cheered their victory, Lancelot and Galahad hugging for ages, and then the boy had broken away, sobered, turning to him. Asking:

“Ain’t there gonna be a funeral? For Harry?”

Merlin tenses at the memory. Yes, there should be. There’s supposed to be.

There always is. The death of a Kingsman is a blessedly infrequent occasion, but when it happens, there’s rarely any living kin to speak of. Someone’s got to bury them, and there’s no honor in leaving it to the state. As a Kingsman is welcomed by his brethren, so shall he depart the earth. Every suit is black on those days. Every topcoat.

Merlin himself has only been to a sparse number of these. It’s only recently that colleague casualties have begun to plague his tenure with any regularity. They lost an Arthur—his and Harry’s training agent, Chester’s predecessor—to diabetic ketoacidosis in the mid-eighties. A Gareth fell to Botswanan militants in ’92. A Percival to a literal fall in ’94. Then Lancelot—prior to James; a man named Duncan Billingsley—killed in a car crash in 1997. James, they buried on a Thursday, stitched back together as best they could do. Lee Unwin, they turned over to the Westminster Public Mortuary, who, in turn, released his remains to the custody of his widow; he received no Kingsman ceremony, though the circle K mark still graces the base of his headstone, earned through his bravery.

Five funerals. Only five, and five too many. Never in all his years has he seriously pictured attending Harry’s. Harry Hart, damn him and all his reckless shite, was…indestructible. Stubbornly so. That funeral was always the most hypothetical. The very last one he’d ever expected, or wanted to attend.

Until now. Now, it’s the one thing he wants to attend more than anything.

Now that he can’t.

He removes his glasses, setting the frames down on his desk, working his hands together. They cup his face, and he sighs. His exhausted mind replays the comlink feedback from not five minutes ago.

_“Come in, Merlin; this is Llamrei. We’re on the ground.”_

They’d been in the air before even he and the recruits had. The salvage crew. He hadn’t waited. Not even for the toast. He hadn’t toasted. He’d arranged for pickup instead. For God’s sake, he’d sent them immediately.

_“We have blood on the car park, positively identified.”_

In front of South Glade Mission Church. Analysis would have taken only seconds. But they shouldn’t have had to analyze. The source was supposed to be where they’d left him…

_“Area is clear. Repeat, area is clear. No remains or sign of Agent Galahad.”_

_No remains or sign of Agent Galahad_.

He’d sent them immediately. He couldn’t have sent them any sooner, couldn’t have shortened the ocean or sped them to Kentucky any faster. And it wasn’t enough. Somewhere in that window of time…

_What the hell happened?_

There’s nothing in this world he despises more than a question with no answer. Ordinarily, they annoy him. Vex him. Irritate him to no end. He designs workarounds to circumvent them. When possible, he cracks them. When advantageous, he hacks them. Unanswered questions and his hatred thereof have inspired no less than his every development, every schematic.

For all that work, this is one that he can’t fix. He’s met his match, and it’s Harry’s brains on a car park, no chance he survived, yet no body to return to his home.

_How did we fucking lose him?_

“You check the area,” he’d ordered them. “And then you check it again.” The situation wasn’t without possibilities. The moment of Harry’s death may not have coincided with the termination of his feed. He could have crawled for a bit. Back inside, or away for help. Even between the cars, or underneath, to keep himself from being discovered. Sensationalized.

But he hadn’t. Merlin had watched with his own eyes as Llamrei transmitted. Their full sweep returned a topographical scan of the area covering a half-mile’s radius.

Harry was gone. Harry _is_ gone, and a day that was already hell is now infinitely worse.

He picks up his glasses, easing them back onto his nose. He straightens his tie, palming it flat beneath his jumper. His own emotions, his own frustrations mean extraordinarily little now. Especially because it’s very likely that they’ll never subside. Not without answers that are maddeningly beyond his reach. There’ll be time to grapple with them later. He wouldn’t rule out a pint of scotch for supper tonight.

He’s already failed to bring Harry home to rest. He is _not_ going to fail at the one task Harry left in his hands.

 _“Look after him, Merlin.”_ He remembers Harry in his housecoat and slippers, fresh out of his coma, more concerned with dramatic entrustments than even his return to civilization. _“Should I be any less lucky the next time round, I ask you, as a personal favor. Please. See that he fulfills his potential. Don’t let him be discouraged by my death. Or dwell on it, for heaven’s sake.”_

He’d told Harry to shut up. And called him a prick, if memory serves. Which it always does.

He hates the prick even worse now for making him do this.

Merlin rises, putting his computer to sleep. For once, he doesn’t collect his clipboard. Instead, he goes by instinct to the right coordinates of wall, pressing his palm to the hidden censor. Bluegreen fingerprints etch out a glow beneath his touch. The panel recesses. From the cubby it reveals, he carefully procures one of the agency’s dozen coveted decanters, pinching together three shot glasses in his spare hand.

The others have toasted. Bedivere. Gawain. Lamorak. Fucking dead Chester. This is for the three of them who haven’t, not fittingly. It’s arguable they’re the ones who need it more than the rest combined.

His gut is no less sour as he walks with measured steps toward the Lancelot suite. He’s just very good at hiding it. After all this time, he fucking ought to be. With the crystal stopper, he taps twice, lightly, on the heavy door.

“Permission to enter,” he requests.

“Granted,” Roxy’s voice returns.

Merlin enters. Exhaustion has taken hold of the kids in his absence. They’re both sat on the foot of the bed, Eggsy’s elbows on his knees, medallion in his hands. Roxy’s angled toward him, her near hand on his back. J.B. and Marthe lounge at their feet, panting as if they’d put in the same work as their human counterparts.

Wordlessly, he hands Roxy the first shot glass. Her brow quirks, but she accepts. The transaction flags Eggsy’s peripheral, as he knew it would, and when the boy looks up, Merlin proffers him the second one.

“What’s all this?”

Merlin uncorks the ceremonial booze. “We’re honoring Harry,” he explains.

“But…I already…”

“No, you didn’t. It doesn’t count as a proper memorial when someone’s trying to poison you. A good tip you might want to remember for the future.” He pours Roxy’s shot first, then Eggsy’s, and then his own. If they’re a little heavy-handed…well. Harry can come fucking fight him, now can’t he.

He plans to wait at least until they drink. That is, he does until Roxy sizes him up, careful scrutiny all over her face, and he knows he’s been made.

 _Nothing’s_ going to go as planned today, then. Not aside from the exploding heads, anyway.

“There’s something you’re not telling us,” she diagnoses.

For a moment, he’s perfectly still but for his eyes, shifting from one of them to the other. They’re hanging on his every word, both of them. Merlin sighs. His manners only take precedence because his autopilot knows no better. “May I sit?”

Roxy nods once. He takes the chair by her door and moves it closer, parking himself just the other side of the dogs. The shot glass and decanter go on the ottoman. His hands knead without permission.

“What’s wrong?”

He pays Eggsy for his question with eye contact. He has to force it, but he can’t deny it’s been earned, no matter how difficult.

“I’m afraid this will be the extent of any funeral for Harry.”

There’s only a split second where the thought of telling the truth crosses his mind. Then, willingly, without regret or hesitation, he lies.

“After the test at the church, Valentine…sent in a cleanup crew.”

It’s certainly not impossible. In fact, it’s the closest to a logical idea he’s got. Except that the bodies in the building were still there. Maybe Valentine took Harry’s body specifically to learn who he was. It’s a longshot. But it’s better than the alternative. Eggsy filling his own head with false hope, waiting for months like a cocker spaniel at the window. Waiting against all odds for a triumphant return that’s never going to come.

“My recovery team canvassed the property, but there wasn’t anything left. No weapons. No blood. And…no bodies. Neither inside nor out. No one was left. Suppose he didn’t want to attract the media before the countdown to V-Day was finished.”

He watches them react. Concern paints Roxy’s face, but her eyes only widen momentarily before checking on Eggsy. The boy’s eyes aren’t dry anymore. He swallows hard. Merlin has to remind himself again that this is the best recourse in the long run.

“So… You’re sayin’ that… They took his body. So…that’s it.”

Merlin nods. “Mass cremation, most likely.” It’s insurance. None of them want to picture it, but he’s in the business of protection now. He’s the one doomed to lack closure. The kids don’t have to. It’s a sick, wasting illness he’s got no designs to spread.

Roxy’s eyes shut, a single tear driving down her cheek. She swipes it away, nodding. Eggsy is stoic, jaw so tightly locked that the tendons in his neck protrude. He stares at the carpet for what feels to Merlin like a solid hour, and then his head bobs too, and he throws back the contents of his shot glass in a single gulp, wincing once it’s down.

He holds it out, spare hand beckoning. “Let’s have another, then.”

Not an hour ago—fresh from champagne and strawberries, effectively grounded in the back of the plane—he’d have denied him that. But not now. The look on his face is enough. Suddenly Merlin sees through Harry’s eyes, and for the first time, there’s a pull that lets him understand firsthand, more than he thought he did already. For all intents and purposes, this boy is Harry’s son. Everything he gave the world.

It’s more than enough reason to give him another drink. A generous one, at that.

Merlin’s still blinking away the resemblance manufactured by his brain when Eggsy lifts his second shot. “To Harry,” he says solemnly. “Just the fuckin’ best of us.”

Roxy’s goes up next. And Merlin follows, lightly clinking them together at the rim. “To Harry.” It’s by no means a good enough goodbye, but as the only one he’s ever going to get, at least it’s in good company.

Together, the three of them drink. Merlin leads an unannounced moment of silence afterward, and then he stands. He doesn’t cork the coveted brandy or collect their glasses. Let them finish it. There’s always more. Some things can be replaced.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

“You can stay, y’know, Merlin.” Eggsy’s looking up at him now. “You really came through for us both in all this. You don’t ’ave to go.”

It’s only a borderline plea, which is good, because it frees him to choose the side of the border where he can ignore the pleading part entirely. Roxy’s with him. That’s enough for the moment.

“Actually, I do,” he says. “Someone’s got to start new Arthur proceedings. The sooner the better.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. But thank you.”

Truthfully, it can wait ’til morning. The real problem is that this is going to be far more difficult than anticipated. Making it through the long haul means getting out of this room right now, before he and his lie both unravel around the younger agents’ little fingers.

Eggsy doesn’t press. “Alright,” he says.

“Sleep well, Merlin,” Roxy offers.

“And…thanks.”

All Merlin can do is smile faintly, nod one more time, and perform an about-face, pulling Roxy’s door shut in his wake. He heads down the center of the corridor with concrete in every step, his fifty-plus years weighing like eighty in his bones. Had he his clipboard, it would probably be smashed. ‘Accidentally,’ to be sure.

 _Are you happy, you bastard?_ The deed is done; a new mission begun of an old one never to end. _Wherever you are, I hope you’re fucking happy_.

He sits at his desk until Llamrei returns, and then he goes to bed, extinguishing an era with the light.

 


End file.
